The Inheritance: A Novel

By Brian Williams

Adult siblings Timothy and Rosita couldn’t possibly be more different. Timothy, the eldest of four, is a Holy Ghost filled believer whose daily walk with the Lord has grown to

become naturally supernatural. By grace through faith, he operates effortlessly in the gifts of the Spirit; On the other hand…his younger sister Rosita, to her peril, has flirted with New Age Spirituality for far too long. Under the tutelage of her “spiritual adviser” Rosita is drawn more deeply into the occult than she ever bargained for. 



When Timothy, Rosita, and their brothers, Robert and Dexter, attend the reading of their father’s last will and testament, the siblings learn that Timothy will inherit their recently

deceased father’s massive fortune, leaving the rest of them with nothing. The quarrelsome upheavals that subsequently ensue threaten to destroy the family bonds that were once

impervious to scandal and controversy.



As the sibling rivalry escalates, Robert’s alcoholism intensifies; Dexter seems unconcerned by the lack of an inheritance because his illegal “business dealings” fund his

lucrative lifestyle; Timothy’s faith is tested as he tries to show his brothers and sister the authentic life-changing power of Jesus; and Rosita (Robert’s twin) continues her disastrous

plunge into New Age Occultism--a diabolical counterfeit of the anointing. As Rosita plays a dangerous game with forces of darkness she does not understand, the family is plagued by unexplainable occurrences that threaten their safety and even their lives.



Can Rosita be rescued from the grip of evil before it is too late? Will the siblings continue in their destructive lifestyles, or will they receive their true inheritance of eternal life in Jesus Christ?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Creation House
• Release date: Aug 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781621363750

Brian Williams

Bria Williams is the daughter of Bryan “Birdman” Williams, founder of Cash Money Records. Follow her Instagram at @BriaWilliams1. 

Book preview

A NOVEL

BRIAN WILLIAMS

THE INHERITANCE by Brian Williams

Published by Creation House

A Charisma Media Company

600 Rinehart Road

Lake Mary, Florida 32746

www.charismamedia.com

This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the publisher, except as provided by United States of America copyright law.

Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

Design Director: Bill Johnson

Cover design by Terry Clifton

Author photo courtesy of KYS Photography

([e-mail])

Copyright © 2013 by Brian Williams

All rights reserved.

For media inquiries contact Kimberly Young, publicist, at [e-mail]

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: 2013937681

International Standard Book Number: 978-1-62136-374-3

E-book International Standard Book Number: 978-1-62136-375-0

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers and Internet addresses at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors or for changes that occur after publication.

DEDICATION

Thank you, Lord Jesus, for this ministry.

CONTENTS

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

35

36

37

38

39

40

About the Author

Contact the Author

PROLOGUE

ADULT SIBLINGS TIMOTHY, Dexter, Robert, and Rosita sat attentively at a long mahogany table in attorney Joseph Tyndale’s office. A platter of glazed doughnuts and a pitcher of orange juice sat untouched on the table in front of them. Intently, the siblings watched the flat-screen television as their recently deceased father, Darren Johnson, read his last will and testament.

Having amassed a fortune prior to passing away, Darren had actually grown up in abject poverty. However, the patent to an innovative household gadget that transformed soap chips into an environmentally friendly hand sanitizer solution had immensely improved his economic situation. With robust earnings from the LiquiSanitizer3000, Darren had dabbled in real estate, successfully flipping residential properties for modest profit before eventually venturing into more lucrative commercial real-estate transactions. Subsequent to his meteoric rise in the real-estate industry, Darren invested his cash with a prodigious wealth management firm, which resulted in such exponential growth of his assets that within five years’ time Darren’s net worth was valued at approximately three hundred thirteen million dollars.

And now I would like to read to you my last will and testament . . .

Other than the voice of Darren addressing his children through the television, the only other thing that could be heard in Joseph’s office was the faint sound of the building’s heating and cooling system humming in the background.

"To Galilee Harvest Church, I bequeath five million dollars to be divided equally among the various ministries of the church . . . "

Rosita and Robert, twins, were noticeably taken aback by the announcement of the allocation to the church. They stared at the man on the flat-screen television as if he were an alien. The daggers in their eyes resembled those of their Puerto Rican mother, Lola, when often she’d been angry with her ex-husband.

The older siblings, Dexter and Timothy, were seemingly unfazed by the announcement of Dad’s generous bequeathal to the church, but for wholly different reasons. Dexter was simply nonchalant like that. Not to be mistaken, he was just as much motivated by greed as Rosita and Robert, but he was way too cool to let how he really felt be outwardly manifested.

Timothy, on the other hand, the eldest of them all, was genuinely bereft by the loss of his father; money was the furthest thing from his mind. Timothy was one of the ministers of Galilee Harvest, the church that would be receiving the five million dollars. With all of his heart Timothy had believed for his dad to be miraculously healed of the vicious sickness that had wreaked havoc on his body. There were times during the many gruesome months of sickness that Darren’s health did improve. But the fight had been long and tiresome, and in the end, Darren simply wanted to go home to be with the Lord. Timothy and Darren had grown closer than ever over the last couple of years. Truly, it was of little concern to Timothy how Darren bequeathed his estate.

"To my ex-wife, Lola, whom I never stopped loving, I bequeath three million dollars to be held in trust until the date of her release from Broward Correctional Facility for women. You’ll never know the regret I’ve carried over the years for betraying you the way I did. Please believe me when I say I never stopped loving you."

The eyes of everyone in the room softened when Darren’s voice quivered his confessional proclamation of love for Lola.

"And the remainder of my estate, I bequeath to my son Timothy . . . "

Stunned responses erupted vocally from Rosita, Robert, Dexter, and most audibly from Timothy, sole heir of the remaining estate that was valued in excess of three hundred million dollars.

"To Rosita, Robert, and Dexter, my disappointment with you is difficult to put into words . . . "

In typical ill-mannered fashion, Robert welled up with anger at his father’s words. Without deliberation he stormed out of the office, brazenly dismissing the remainder of the recording.

"You wouldn’t heed my repeated counsel to you while I was alive. It is my prayer that you now listen to my voice from beyond the grave . . . "

At that, Dexter now stood, calmly. He offhandedly followed Robert’s trail out of the office while placing his BlackBerry messenger back into the holster on his belt. Whatever, man, he huffed, shaking his head as he exited.

"Robert, alcohol and anger are destroying you. Dexter, arrogance and pride have utterly consumed you. And Rosita, I had no idea until a few months ago that you were involved in such darkness. I’ve been praying real hard for you—for all of you—but Rosita, baby, the things you’re involved in . . . Please stop. You wouldn’t listen to me when I was alive. I can’t continue to finance your occult activities. Sweetheart, renounce that stuff and just trust the Lord . . . "

The sincerity of Darren’s words was punctuated by a solitary tear trickling down his cheek. Almost simultaneously, Rosita shed a stubborn tear of her own.

"Timothy, my son. I ask that you immediately discontinue the allowances to your brothers and sister. I should’ve done that myself while I was still alive, but I was hopeful that they’d come to their senses and straighten up. Maybe this will get their attention. I’ve left further instructions for you in a safe deposit box at the Bank of America downtown . . . "

Rosita then, overcome with emotion, thrust an angry fist upon the table at which she and Timothy sat.

I can’t believe this! Rosita looked angry enough to commit murder. "This is all your fault, Timothy!"

SIX DAYS LATER Rosita tapped her forefinger against pursed lips while her computer booted up. It was just prior to dawn as she sat Indian-style on her queen-sized waterbed. Nervous anticipation coursed through her veins.

Come on, Rosita’s voice trembled, barely above a whisper. Please be there.

Typically, it was an automatic transaction. Like clockwork, by the fifth of each month, Rosita’s ten-thousand-dollar allowance would be wired into her bank account. For the past three years her recently deceased father, millionaire tycoon Darren Johnson, had given overly generous monthly stipends to Rosita and her three brothers.

Six days ago, however, at the reading of Darren’s last will and testament, instructions were given to Timothy to immediately stop the monthly allowances to Rosita, Robert, and Dexter. Timothy had been given nearly the entire estate. The words still haunted Rosita’s psyche; they pressed on her mind like a two-ton weight.

Strangely void of natural affection, bereavement was the last thing on Rosita’s mind. What was critically important to her was Daddy’s money, and lots of it; in fact, in her mind it was vital to her existence. The presumptuous twenty-two year old had an uppity, extremely carnal lifestyle to maintain. Alternative spirituality, glitz, glamour, finances, and accumulating material excesses were her highest priorities.

Granted, Rosita’s plush living quarters and Jaguar XJ were fully paid for. Much to her peril, though, she’d acquired an absolutely insatiable taste for the finer things in life, which demanded the most extravagant creature comforts that money could buy. Not to mention the gargantuan sums of money she threw away attending New Age conferences, following

gurus, and seeking physic advice, despite her oldest brother’s loving warnings that all of these spiritual pursuits of hers were demonic in nature.

Six days ago, stubborn denial had gripped Rosita during the reading of Daddy’s will, and now its choke hold tightened even more as her bank account balance flashed across the computer screen. She stared in utter disbelief. No deposit! The words echoed in Rosita’s mind as she thrust an angry fist into the keyboard. Her account balance was only $93,210.17,

a decline of approximately nine hundred dollars versus the day before.

This was incomprehensible. Not only had Daddy not left her an inheritance, but Timothy had honored Darren’s wishes and terminated Rosita’s monthly allowance.

Rosita’s face turned crimson with rage as she slammed the laptop shut.

Then, almost against her own volition, she sat straight up and froze on the bed.

Don’t worry.

The voice was not her own. It was one that she had only begun hearing within the past couple weeks.

I told you that I would take care of you, now didn’t I? Haven’t you given me your trust?

Rosita relaxed and, sitting in the yoga lotus position, began to empty her mind, which was difficult at first. She would soon begin the chants that she’d recently been taught, unknowingly summoning her worst nightmare.

Before fully entering into trance mode, it was as if she could hear her brother Timothy’s words from days ago: "Rosita, those things are not spirit guides! They’re demonic, seducing spirits!"

Timothy is so foolish.

She wasn’t sure if that voice was hers or her spirit guide, who now stood before her in her mind’s eye.

TIMOTHY TOSSED HIS backpack onto the passenger’s side seat of his Toyota Camry before climbing inside for his morning commute to the community college. At twenty-eight years of age the college sophomore was a nontraditional student in more ways than one.

Before starting the engine, Timothy sat for a brief moment sipping freshly brewed coffee from his travel mug. Hours earlier, while praying in tongues, he’d experienced instantaneous healing when a severe case of nasal congestion simply vanished. Now, inhaling deep, he had a renewed appreciation for the delightful aroma of coffee that filled his vehicle.

Timothy took another sip of his java, then adjusted his rearview mirror before proceeding to back out of his driveway for the drive to the community college. As his thoughts shifted to the presentation he would be giving momentarily in his Argument and Persuasion class, a jet black Jaguar XJ with limousine tints slammed to a screeching halt behind him, just barely missing his rear bumper at the end of the driveway.

Rosita! His heart jackhammered. What is she doing here?

Placing his vehicle in park, Timothy caught a glimpse of his baby sister through one of the side-view mirrors as she vaulted from the driver’s seat of her expensive chariot. A swirling March wind tossed her long black hair across her angrily contorted face. Timothy emerged from his own vehicle wearing a quizzical expression. His attention was drawn to the glittery lettering on the front of Rosita’s sleeveless black T-shirt, which read Aquarian. He opened his mouth to speak, but Rosita beat him to the punch.

We need to talk, Timothy!

And good morning to you too, Rosita. At that moment, Timothy began to receive supernatural words of knowledge concerning his sister.

Good morning, Tim, Rosita fired back hotly. We need to talk.

Aren’t you chilly in those shorts and that T-shirt?

Rosita rolled her eyes before responding, I jumped out of bed and just came straight over here.

Her statement was only partially true. She’d jumped out of bed alright, after an hour and a half of yoga and New Age meditation, during which time she’d finally taken her first astral trip, an out-of-body experience she’d been desperately longing for. After weeks of desiring this experience, Manny, her spirit guide, had finally obliged and escorted her through the so-called astral plane, which was really the second heaven, the habitation of demons.

So do you have time to talk or not, Timothy? Rosita huffed.

I’m giving a presentation in class this morning, Timothy explained, checking his watch. But what’s on your mind, Rosita?

My allowance! Rosita quipped sharply, fighting to suppress the temper tantrum she felt brewing inside. And this whole inheritance fiasco!

Yes, we do need to talk about that, Timothy agreed, nodding. Dad left me a very detailed letter that I need to discuss with you, Robert, and Dexter.

What is this letter about? Rosita’s eyebrows were fully raised as she quizzed Timothy.

I’d rather discuss it with you, Robert, and Dexter at the same time.

When? Rosita demanded with her hands firmly on her hips.

How about tonight? Timothy suggested, rechecking his watch. Eight o’clock, at Dad’s house? I need to pick something up from there anyway.

Yeah, Rosita said, spinning on her heels. Later.

Can you let Robert and Dexter know we’re meeting? Timothy asked while Rosita stormed away.

Sure, she fumed while turning to make final eye contact with her brother before disappearing behind jet black tinted windows, all the while managing a half-cocked smile that belied the intensity of her inner rage.

As Timothy climbed back into his own ride, he thought, Hopefully I’ll have some good news to report about Mom tonight too.

LOLA HADN’T SLEPT a wink all night, not that she ever rested well in her five-by-five-foot jail cell.

God, if you’re real . . . please let me get out of this place.

Incarceration was causing her to doubt if God really existed. Having grown up religious, Lola used to think that if she didn’t perform certain works, pray the rosary, offer penance, and venerate Mary she wouldn’t be accepted by God. Her oldest son, Timothy, often told her that she could have a personal relationship with God, which was only possible through Jesus Christ, but Timothy’s words usually fell on deaf ears.

This particular morning, Lola had been pacing the cramped confines of her cell since 7:00 a.m., and finally, in approximately fifteen minutes, she’d be making her plea to the parole board for an early release from Broward Correctional Facility for women. When she’d spoken to Timothy via phone yesterday she felt reassured that things would go well today, but now she wasn’t so sure.

Alright, Lola. The guard’s husky voice startled Lola out of her daydream. It’s ten o’clock. They waitin’ for you.

You scared the daylights out of me, Carl, Lola stammered nervously. Her Spanish accent was barely detectable, but her tone didn’t lack for volume.

I’m sorry ’bout that, Sweet Mama, Carl replied, flashing his typical devilish grin. Right this way. Extending his arm like a maître d’ seating guests at a fine restaurant, Carl leaned forward as Lola emerged from her cell. She didn’t take it, nor did she look at him until he patted her rear end as she passed.

You disgusting pig! Lola wanted desperately to spit in his face but thought better of it. She’d grown wearisome of Carl’s sexual advances ever since her initial incarceration three and a half years ago. With hardheaded determination, the colossal man from the West Indies was accustomed to having his way with most of the female prisoners and rarely took no for an answer. Just keep your cool, girl, Lola chided herself. It’s the only way to get out of this hellhole.

Lola? Carl spoke in a lowered tone as he caressed Lola’s shoulder. He towered like Goliath over her petite physique. Just remember that what happens in here, stays in here.

How many times do I have to tell you? Lola spun on her heels, seething, deflecting Carl’s heavy, unwelcome hand off of her. Keep your crusty paws off of me!

Simmer down, Li’l Mama. Carl backpedaled as his eyes traveled the length of Lola’s well-toned body. I don’t want no troubles. You just so irresistible that I can’t help myself. You know I got it bad for you Hispanic chicks.

Lola’s razor-sharp gaze looked as if it could slice through thick steel unimpeded as she rolled her eyes at Carl. Her expression remained one of infuriation, exasperation, and deep-rooted anguish as Carl led the way through the long, dimly lit corridor of cell block D.

Keep your cool. Lola struggled to regain control of her thoughts, oblivious to the cacophony of comments that were being shouted from many of the cells they moved past on the way to the warden’s office.

Good luck, girl, some said encouragingly.

They ain’t lettin’ you out, came some negative replies.

By the time they reached the warden’s office a plethora of thoughts had crossed Lola’s mind, one in particular shrouding her conscience, threatening to overtake her sanity. If I could only go back and do things over again.

Her mind flitted back to the events that led up to her incarceration.

The ingenious patent to the LiquiSanitizer3000 had brought Darren, her then-husband, unfathomable riches that had allowed he and Lola to travel the world extensively, which they did at every whim, initially. The African Sahara had been a thrill unmatched. The Fiji islands had been a vacation dream come true. The Bahamas, Jamaica, Cancun, and Tahiti had all provided the red carpet treatment and ecstasy beyond compare in great abundance. But it was never enough. The money, the traveling, the jet-set lifestyle never offered any peace or deep fulfillment, and tragically, an empty restlessness became their way of life.

They’d both felt it, but neither spoke of it, which only made matters worse. The inevitable drifting apart that ensued was subtle, almost unnoticeable, when it initially began. Lola sought comfort in shopping, day spas, and attending elegant galas. All the while Darren pursued fulfillment through lucrative real estate transactions, which he excelled at. Both their pursuits left them longing for much more. Somewhat similar to Lola, Darren had been raised religious, but his upbringing too had been void of a personal relationship with Christ. As a result, by the time they’d made the first hundred million dollars, the chase for inner peace had grown to insatiable proportions.

Lola had known that with the money and success Darren was the constant target of sexual advances from multiple women. He resisted initially, but in time the temptation felt impossible to resist, like a cocaine addict locked up in a room with a million lines of the powdery substance as far as the eye can see.

Lola’s suspicions began almost precisely the moment that Darren had succumbed to the temptation of marital infidelity. Back then, all she wanted was a return to the way things had been prior to their jet-set lifestyles and Darren’s adulterous ways.

Her plan to fix things seemed flawless in her eyes. She’d never intended for anyone to get hurt. It all seemed simple enough at the time: Hire a private investigator to follow Darren. Compile evidence of his marital infidelity. Confront him and threaten to leave. Make him beg like a dog for forgiveness. Take him back under your terms and conditions.

What she hadn’t bargained for was a psycho private investigator who would later frame her for attempted murder.

So, tell us, Ms. Perez— Cindy Harrison, chairwoman of the parole board, spoke with a southern drawl— Why should we allow you to re-enter society prior to the completion of your full prison sentence?

Lola fidgeted nervously in her chair as she looked the blonde-haired, blue-eyed woman across the table from her in the eyes. Sitting to Cindy’s immediate left was Suzanne Rice, warden of the correctional facility, and to Cindy’s immediate right was Bruce Benton, the facility’s licensed clinical psychologist. Of the remaining six members of the parole board that lined the table, the only other individual Lola recognized was Allen Jameson, the county’s Probation Director. All the rest were foreigners to Lola. By her lonesome, Lola occupied her side of the long oak table, tossing quick glances in each of their direction before offering a response.

I haven’t caused any trouble since I’ve been here, she said, forcing an awkward smile.

And we should release you for good behavior, right? Cindy interrogated her in a sinister way.

I’m not a threat to society, Lola fired back rapidly, but then caught herself before getting too riled up. If she could keep her cool, she may just get out of this place.

I can vouch for her good behavior, Suzanne, the heavy-set, pear-shaped warden, chimed in reluctantly. But I’m not so sure that she has remorse for her crime.

Lola’s breathing intensified as she focused on the shiny pimple that glistened on Suzanne’s forehead. She’d been pleading her innocence since she’d arrived at the facility, but all the while Suzanne had seemed determined to force Lola to confess guilt.

Before we go any further, Bruce, the psychologist interjected, let us, the parole board, remember what the new governor of our state communicated to us a couple of months ago when he assembled this new parole board.

Yeah, right, Bruce, Cindy, the chairwoman interrupted him. We all understand that we are not here to determine guilt, innocence, remorse, yadda, yadda, yadda—

I’ve counseled Lola on a few occasions since she’s been here, Bruce cut Cindy off. His medium-bronze complexion turned red, as it usually did when he was frustrated. And I must say . . .

Lola sat back and relaxed as Bruce spoke in her defense. He was the only person she’d met since getting locked up that she felt she could trust.

. . . I have noticed significant positive changes in Ms. Perez, Bruce explained.

What kind of changes, Bruce? Allen Jameson, the County’s Probation Director, piped in for the first time. His tone was even, and his demeanor was calm. In the 1950s, Allen had been an activist for civil rights when many of his Caucasian neighbors had labeled him a traitor to his white race.

That’s what I’d like to know, Cindy snapped for no apparent reason, at which point all eyes in the room converged on her. So we can make an informed decision.

What is her problem? Lola couldn’t help but frown and roll her eyes. What does she have against me so? I will not have a quick temper today.

For starters, Bruce spoke up while placing his elbows on the table, Ms. Perez has earned certification in website design.

But has she been reformed? Cindy snatched a sheet of paper from a folder that sat in front of her, then she scribbled something at the top of it. "Let’s get to the heart of the matter and talk about reform, please people."

It took everything Lola had to remain in her seat at that moment. She wanted